Nine

Frank and I had the pleasure of going to Prime 11 Cinema in Anderson yesterday. I love that place, it looks great and has the most comfortable seats. It is always filled with the aroma of popcorn but better yet, and with me it’s hard to be better than popcorn, the vibe of sincere cinema lovers permeates. Thank you, Prime 11 owners.

We saw the film Nine. There were many interesting things about it. I love Daniel Day Lewis but couldn’t feel him in the part. I love Italy but even the location shots somehow seemed lackluster or, maybe, lifeless, uninhabited. The musical numbers were all performed with gusto by beautiful, talented women but there was no soul or cohesion to the film. It just seemed like separate parts cut together. Like a really boring instructional manual or a tedious book, it was hard to stick with it.

Fellini is Fellini and his magic is not always transferable out of context. Fellini has heart and charm. Nine has none despite the best efforts of good intentioned actors and the dearness with which, I’m sure, Fellini is held in the hearts of the producers. Sad.

Fergie and Kate Hudson rocked the F$@& out of their numbers. Nicole Kidman burned with wisdom and sincerity in her weird small part.

It is a sort of cardboard, stagy version of the cad’s dilemma: We are afraid of disappointing our beloved, now saintly, mother. We love women in the abstract, there are too many, we can’t resist. Eventually we feel empty. Shampoo?

This filmmaker’s art is written on the bodies of women. The muse comes with an excuse to abuse. The male artist is a self-contained entity that does not need mutual emotional connection . . . until he’s too old to F$%&/Create and then he must face himself.

It might have been a compelling story in the right hands. It was a grotesquely beautiful thing in 8 1/2.

I wonder if men find Nine more interesting.

What do I take away from the experience? You can always trust your costume designer and you can stage a film about ineffable romantic hedonism in England.